When Argrave finished demanding cooperation from Chiteng, he felt a little lightheaded from the rush that brought on. He managed not to do anything foolish or embarrassing in the wake of that, though he furiously replayed what he’d said in his head to make sure he’d said nothing overtly disrespectful. He hung on every word uttered, thinking of how it might be interpreted… then wondered if his interpretation was fruitless, because he couldn’t think as a god could.

Still, Argrave did not come this far to submit to the advent of the gods so meekly. He fought against Gerechtigkeit—if he bent before the elven gods or the Qircassian Coalition, he’d failed before he’d even begun. If anything, this meant that old Gerry viewed Argrave as a bigger threat than the Qircassians, for he intended to use them to snuff out Argrave. That realization made Argrave only more certain his choice was the right one.

Still, his brain whirled as he thought of what he’d said and what he needed to do. He barely processed, then, when Chiteng raised his hand up and pointed.

“Return,” the elven god said simply, voice as loud and disruptive as it ever was.

Argrave stared up, trying to make sense of that. He heard something behind him and looked back to see the great whale that had carried them here swimming back to the ivory harbor, placing its broad head up against the side so as to give them a ride once more. When Argrave looked back to Chiteng for further explanation, he saw the god had closed his eyes, leaning his face against his fist while his elbow braced on the armrest.

Return. What did that mean? Argrave wished to ask a thousand more questions… but given that Chiteng had thus far only laughed a couple times, said a name, and said one word, it was safe to say Argrave couldn’t expect a further elaboration. He took slow steps away, walking backwards until he nearly collided with Orion. The prince grabbed and steadied him, giving him a wordless nod. Then the two walked back to the whale.

As the beast slowly swam away from the harbor back to the island, Argrave watched the elven god sit seemingly in stasis. He couldn’t tell whether he’d failed utterly, failed slightly, or simply delayed things for another day. But he was alive. He was alive, and other things needed doing.

Argrave realized that Orion was staring at him. He was perplexed for a few moments but saw the prince fidgeting with his hands and remembered his earlier order.

“You can talk again,” Argrave told him. “Still… don’t think we’re alone here, ever.”

“What was the outcome?” Orion asked the question Argrave himself had been pondering.

In response, Argrave stayed silent. Things weren’t necessarily over vis-à-vis negotiation. There was more that could be said and more that could be done. There were other gods that could be spoken to if Chiteng refused. He wouldn’t stop—couldn’t stop—until things were done right. He’d go, go, and go until they bent or gave in. And if they didn’t bend, if they never listened… he could rouse Sarikiz, rouse other primeval forces. If necessary, he’d be willing to do anything to win on his terms… because Argrave knew that his terms would be better than any that a god would be willing to offer. Anneliese and Artur both had been completely right—there was no place in life for self-pity.

When Argrave opened his eyes once more, he laid eyes upon that door Chiteng had called to allow him to return back to the mortal realm. That made him remember half the reason he had come here—to ascend to A-rank. Argrave took a deep, anxious breath as they neared the shore once again.

“I’m going to ascend to A-rank real quick,” Argrave said to Orion with bravado he did not feel. “After, we can discuss our next move.”

#####

Castro sat at his desk, writing something by the light of a magic lamp. He was completely ignorant of heavy footsteps and a single heavy staff sounding through his chamber.

“Is that the moon I see reflecting all that light, or a bald head?”

Castro looked up, surprised. He narrowed his eyes in the dim light, and then rose to his feet. “Rowe? What in the gods’ name are you doing here?”

Rowe the Righteous, ancient-looking Veidimen of the distant continent of Veiden, strutted through into the Tower Master Castro’s chambers with his staff in his right hand and a book in his left. “You gave me access to your tower, remember? That elevator you have… took me half an hour to get up here. What’s the damn point of something this tall? You’re surrounded by grassland—save yourself some time, build simple, wide buildings. Could have a city here. Instead, you have some stupid monument.”

Castro stepped around his desk. “I didn’t build it.”

“When it’s destroyed by Gerechtigkeit, eyesore that it is… I suggest you don’t rebuild it.” Rowe stepped up to him. Though both hunched from age, he stood a great deal taller than the tower master. The elven man held out the book he held to him. “Anyway… here.”

“What might this be?” Castro put his hands on the book.

“Smut,” Rowe said sarcastically. “What do you think? What do us two wizened wizards have in common, hmm? Argrave.”

“This is… oh!” Castro said in revelation. “His A-rank ascendency. This wasn’t necessary,” he said, but took it off Rowe’s hand nonetheless.

“Wasn’t necessary,” Rowe repeated with a scoff. “You did as much good work fixing that thing as I did. It needed a lot of fixing, granted…”

“He’s not here. You can say nice things about him without fear,” Castro commented as he walked around the desk.

“I can’t risk it. He might hear about it,” Rowe shook his head, then narrowed his eyes. “You seem… off.”

Castro set the book down on the desk. “My apprentice is getting worse. Health issues.” The old man took a deep breath, then exhaled.

“Ask the boy king for help,” Rowe suggested. “He… knows many things, sad as it is to say. If it’s uncurable, maybe he can cure it.”

Castro nodded. “He already promised aid. But he is unable, now—not that he’s busy, but merely that he can’t do it yet. Ingo’s health issues relate to Gerechtigkeit’s advent.” Rowe narrowed his eyes and looked liable to press further, but Castro quickly changed the subject, tapping the book he’d been given as he said, “What do you think of this?”

“The boy king’s bid for supremacy on the magic field?” Rowe tapped his staff on the ground, then looked about.

“Supremacy, you say. So you think it’s potent?” Castro sat behind his desk.

“It was made to be.” Rowe spotted a chair and pulled it up to the desk, not bothering to make it quiet. He sat down with a huff, then leaned his staff against the desk. “But I’ll tell you what I told him: he’s going too fast. If he tries, he’s going to die.”

Castro nodded. “I am well inclined to agree. But when he left this tower perhaps a year and a half ago, he was only capable of casting D-rank spells. Now… he’s mastered a suite of B-rank spells. As much as any High Wizard of the Order I can think of, at the least.”

“Yes, I know. He was very keen to tell me how talented and great he is.” Rowe spotted a bowl on Castro’s desk and craned his head. He reached forward and snatched it—it was full of nuts of some kind. “Anneliese is doing way better than he is. She’s always going to be ten steps ahead, mark my words.”

The tower master smiled at the blatant favoritism but didn’t mention it further. “Do you think it’s viable?”

“Paper is worth its weight in gold in Veiden. Might not be saying much, given how light it is… but paper being as expensive as it is, I still made a copy for the libraries, and I don’t intend on throwing it out.” Rowe snacked on the nuts from the bowl. “Yes. What he described is viable.”

Castro nodded. “But…?”

“But it’s an active ascension,” Rowe pointed his arthritic finger. “He has to reconstruct his entire body magically, essentially. That sort of ascension requires a mastery over magic spanning decades. Mastery that he lacks. There’s a reason why passive ascensions are more common by the thousands. When he makes a mistake and kills himself, I’ll learn about it and amend the book as necessary.”

“Passive ascensions are difficult, too,” Castro pointed out.

“Not really. Anything you can do by accident can’t be.” Rowe chewed on another nut, then raised his hand. “Don’t act like I’m defaming those poor passive ascenders. My method was passive, too. I took that route because it was easy.”

“And what is your A-rank ascension?” Castro entwined his hands.

Rowe stared silently for a few moments, eating nuts by the handful. He set the bowl down empty. “You want to know my secrets?”

Castro stared back, then looked at the bowl. “Well… those were my walnuts you just ate. I deshelled them myself. Salted them personally.”

Rowe wiped his face off slowly and intently. “And they were good. So what?”

“I thought we were allies,” Castro said flatly.

“You first, then,” Rowe gestured. “Tell me your A-rank ascension’s ability.”

“Alright,” Castro nodded, and Rowe raised his brows. “We’ll play word games, like proper old men. I can give you a one-word riddle. You’ll give me one in turn. We’ll guess.”

“Interesting. Go ahead,” Rowe leaned back in his chair.

Castro thought on it for a long time, then said deliberately, “Age.”

“Hmm…” Rowe tilted his head. “Limits.”

The two old men stared at each other, thinking hard about the word the other used.

“What a pointless exercise,” Rowe shook his head.

Castro laughed, then as the silence extended between the two of them he seemed to be reminded of another matter. “There is one other thing you should see. I’m wondering… do you think Argrave can still use this?”

Castro opened his desk, rummaging through various papers. Rowe waited patiently, and then received a stack of papers from Castro.

“Blood Infusion…” Rowe read it quietly. His face shifted as he neared the end of the first page. “Making all­ spells blood magic?”

“That’s right,” Castro nodded. “This was Argrave’s independent research paper back when he was still an acolyte of this Order. It’s not finished. In conversation, he implied one would need to be A-rank to make use of it. My own thoughts are that it would need to be a blood-magic related ascension, specifically… but I’m not sure.”

Rowe raised the papers up. “This is a little bit more than one page. I can’t tell you immediately if it’s viable.”

“So when you come back next time, tell me then,” Castro nodded.

Rowe looked a little pleased at the invitation but hid that fact well. “Sure. Next time,” he agreed.

Castro’s face slowly turned into a frown as he thought of something. “I know I gave you access to the tower as you wish, but… how did you get here?”

“Dragon, of course,” Rowe said, looking back to the papers.

The tower master looked quite concerned. Suddenly, something fell in the other room, clanging noisily.

“Do you have guests? A girlfriend, maybe?” Rowe said, the picture of calm.

“No, that’s…” Castro slowly rose to his feet. He froze as Ingo, his apprentice, stumbled into the room.

Ingo’s eyes bled. He clung to the wall as he said in a half-groan, “Twenty thousand hands… traitors, all.”

Then, he collapsed on the ground. Castro moved quickly, throwing over the chair as he rushed to the young man. Rowe stood uneasily and stepped over.

“Ingo? Stay with me. Ignore the visions,” Castro directed him as he turned him over and supported his head.

“Dimocles’ guillotine… a shadow trailing, bigger than the darkness man faces ahead….”

Castro cast a spell. Ingo’s shaking stopped, and the bleeding slowed. The tower master let out a slow sigh.

“Prophetic visions?” Rowe questioned. “Some apprentice.”

“Not prophetic,” Castro disputed. “Ingo sees what is. If someone is throwing a punch… he’ll see the punch, but not whether it’ll hit or land. He sees only that it’s happening.”

Rowe stepped around to get a better look at the blue-haired young man. “Who’s Dimocles?”

“I don’t know,” Castro shook his head. “He’s been having so many of these… fits, lately. All of them… chaos. Chaos, war, and destruction. The fact we’ve seen none of it concerns me.”

“Humans aren’t the only ones on this world, you realize. And the Veidimen have seen chaos enough.” Rowe sighed. “Things are coming to a head. That’s the larger reason I’m here. I’m ashamed to even utter these words, but… we need help. Anything you can spare.”

Castro looked at Rowe, sobered and serious. “By His Majesty’s order, I’ll help where I can.”